There are a lot of things I “can’t” do (in theory) with one hand, like clap or tie knots.

I’d list more examples, but I actually have a hard time thinking of stuff I “can’t” do because I’ve adjusted to doing just about everything with one hand already.

There is something though that occasionally bugs me—I can’t scratch my right arm from about just below my shoulder and down.

It drives me insane anytime I have a bug bite or something irritating my right arm. I find creative alternatives like moving it up and down against something rough, but it’s just not the same as being able to dig my nails into the skin.

I recently had a bug bite on my bicep of my right arm, and it annoyed me for about a week of itchiness. I mostly resorted to using pant legs and car interior to ease the discomfort.

It’s a tiny detail in the grand scheme of things, but it is honestly one of the most frustrating things. It also causes problems with putting lotion on my right arm or clasping buttons on a sleeve if I already have the shirt on or wearing a watch or anything that requires tying or fastening in some way on my wrist.

My right hand can do a lot without a left hand supporting it, but some things are physically impossible.

Also along the same lines is clipping my nails. I use a special clipper to trim them, and I hate it. Being the person who adapted to everything else with one hand with no special equipment, I’m reluctant to keeping special clippers around. That being said, there have been times away from home that I’ve somehow managed to cut my nails with regular clippers. All I can tell you is it involves using my toes, and it isn’t easy.

I guess being one handed is just all about being creative and open minded. I use my left arm like a hand to spread lotion on my right arm, button sleeves of shirts prior to getting dressed and I never really wore watches or bracelets anyways, to be honest.

Going through my average day-to-day life, I don’t run into many problems with only having one hand because I’ve already adjusted to most stuff.

Knee boarding is not one of those things I’ve managed to conquer though. At least it wasn’t until last Saturday when I spent some time on Lake Cumberland and convinced myself to try something new.

When I jumped in the water, I was thinking I’d be able to just use my right hand to get my knees up on the board. But as the water flew into my eyes and I struggled to hold onto the board let alone pull myself up, I quickly realized I was wrong.

After the first two tries, I was easily defeated. I thought about giving up, but I pushed myself to try again.

On my third attempt, I reached my left arm over the top of the board and used that and my right hand to pull myself on top. But getting on the board was only half the battle. I needed to re-adjust the strap over my knees, balance and steer at the same time.

I struggled, but succeeded in staying balanced and fixed the strap so it was bearable even though I still didn’t feel secure. The next challenge was grabbing the rope. I thought about not bothering, but after all that work, I wasn’t falling off without trying.

I thought I would have been able to hold the rope with just my right hand, but again I over estimated my muscle strength. Quickly realizing I was seconds away from falling forward off the board, I wrapped my arm around the handle to pull with more power.

I rode the waves for a few minutes and eventually wiped out. My immediate thought? Knee boarding is exhausting, but I did it.

That feeling of accomplishment after figuring out how to do yet another activity with one hand is one of the most satisfying feelings. I didn’t let only having one hand stop me, and that’s all that mattered.

A few minutes later, I noticed the wounds of my battle. A bruise on my left bicep seemed to be growing bigger and darker by the minute. Instead of being upset, I showed it off this week as I bragged about my accomplishment. My best guess is that I got it from holding the rope handle with my arm, but it could have also been from pulling myself up.

Either way, it didn’t stop me from getting out back in the water the next day. This time I got on the board on my first try and rode the waves without using the handle, which was the much easier way for me.

Overall, I’m pretty proud of myself and my bruise.

As I was folding laundry the other night, I realized something about amputees and prosthetic limbs.

It’s true that a lot of amputees don’t like using prosthetics because they’ve already adjusted without it, and adjusting back to having it is an unnecessary hassle. But I think the reason prosthetics seem more like an inconvenience than helpful tool is because we can’t control the mechanical body part we attach to ourselves.

In my experience using a myo electric prosthetic hand, I’ve had the hand completely detach from the arm and roll across the floor; I’ve had the battery die while grocery shopping at Mejier; fingers have stopped moving; different functions such as only having the thumb move have turned on accidentally; and magnets on the sleeve and inside the arm have fallen off.

It can be uncontrollable and essentially unreliable.

Don’t get me wrong, my prosthetic is very useful for certain things—like folding laundry, for example. It’s just difficult to ever think about wearing it constantly when I’m always worried about what it might do next.

It might just lose the grip on a plate or cup, and I’ll spill everything. Or stop working completely while I’m trying to take notes during an interview. It’s frustrating losing control of it out of no where. That certainly didn’t happen with my real hand.

That being said, I’m grateful that technology has come far enough for me to be able to simply move muscles on my arm and have the hand open and close. I’m confident there will be even more improvements in the future too, so I know the functionality will get better. While it is heavy, not waterproof and larger than my right hand, it certainly can do a lot.

I’m looking forward to seeing prosthetic limbs inch closer and closer to being the real thing. I think the more like actual body parts prosthetics become, the more amputees will use them and stop seeing them as an unnecessary hassle. The myo electric is my second prosthetic hand as it is, and I definitely use it more than I used my body powered one.

Despite the imperfections and annoyances, it’s always rewarding when I can switch it from the three finger grip to the thumb only grip to all fingers being used. Working through the glitches of technology isn’t easy, but it’s easier than folding laundry with one hand.

Covering crime is not exactly an uplifting job. It doesn’t leave me feeling cheery or like the world is perfect.

Sometimes it’s not pretty. I’ve seen and heard things that I wish I hadn’t—like images of injured people, details of a car crash or the names of files containing child pornography on someone’s computer.

It can be difficult to cover, but it’s even harder for the people closest to the situation.

In the past few weeks, I’ve written about the unexpected deaths of two young adults. One involved the murder of a 28-year-old woman who was beaten to death. The other was a 19-year-old man who died in a crash on the interstate after he drove the wrong way and collided with a semi-truck.

After recently spending more than an hour talking to the family of the teenager, I was told I have the most depressing beat. At that moment, I couldn’t really disagree. I had spent most of my recent days speaking to people who were grieving their lost loved ones, interviewing coroners about cause of death and researching domestic violence.

But after spending about six hours between interviewing family members and writing a story remembering this local 19-year-old, I felt strange reassurance that I’m in the right career field. I wasn’t annoyed that it was 10 p.m. and I had started work that day at 8 a.m. I smiled with confidence that I had portrayed the teen just as his family had seen him.

When a loved one dies unexpectedly and in the public eye, they deserve a good story. A person shouldn’t be remembered just by, “the kid who died on the interstate” or “the woman who was beaten to death.” These people deserve to be remembered for more—like loving the color purple and playing with Hot Wheels as a kid.

The interviews are slightly uncomfortable, the conversations aren’t short and the stories aren’t quick to write, and that’s OK with me. I take my time, handle it with extra care and hope the family doesn’t regret their decision. When it comes to something like this, there’s a heightened responsibility to get everything right. It’s not like that person who I’m writing about can call me and tell me I was wrong.

I wrote these articles and kind of held my breath, wondering if I’d hear from family members again. Luckily, I was later told that the mom of the 19-year-old said she was happy she talked to me and one of our photographers. The family of the 28-year-old woman said it was helpful to talk about her. I let out a sigh of relief. Covering death might be depressing, but there’s not much more satisfying then knowing I honored the deceased in a way that pleased their surviving family and friends.

I’ve experienced never-ending stares, unfiltered questions, shyness and genuine curiosity from kids, but in four years I don’t think I’ve ever scared a child.

Last weekend, I did. Or at least my arm did.

The 7-year-old boy splashing around in the pool at my apartment complex let out a high pitched scream with his eyes looking as if they were going to pop out of his head when he noticed my lack of a left hand.

I terrified him.

In all my experiences with children, I laugh it off. They’re kids. They don’t know any better. I was inclined to do the same with this boy. It was certainly a new and strange reaction, but I assumed he just had never seen an amputee before.

I kindly told him I was in a car accident, which caused me to lose my hand. He argued that doesn’t happen in crashes. With a smile on my face, I said sometimes it does. In my case, it did.

He swam away, too scared to stick around for much longer. I smiled to the friends I was with so they knew I wasn’t upset by his outburst. Again, kids just don’t know any better. It’s not a big deal.

But then I became a spectacle of the pool, like a monster on exhibit at a zoo. The boy dragged his friend over, whispering and pointing at me. I pretended not to notice.

Then the boy pulled his mom into it, bringing her over to meet me. She apologized for her son, and I told her it was fine. I have two nephews, and I’ve been around plenty of kids who aren’t afraid to voice their emotions.

She said she wouldn’t even know where to begin to explain my situation to him.

This comment rubbed me the wrong way. What exactly is difficult to explain? Amputees are everywhere. There are millions of people with missing limbs that he’s bound to run into throughout his lifetime, and you can’t figure out how to explain that to him? I was shocked to learn that missing a limb was a taboo topic that she shied away from talking about with her son.

My nephews are both 3, and both understand their Aunt Lindsey only has one hand and sometimes has a prosthetic hand that she can wear. If my 3-year-old nephews can grasp the idea of a prosthetic, I’m sure this 7-year-old could at least try to understand limb loss.

It’s not very complicated. Accidents happen everyday, and sometimes, as unfortunate as it is, people lose parts of their bodies as a result of that accident. It might not be comfortable to talk about, but not talking about it is even worse.

I kept quiet to the mom, knowing she meant well. But I hope, for her son’s sake, that she explains it to him.

Kids should not be frightened by amputees. We’re not scary. We’re people—just like any person who’s not missing a limb. Be curious, ask questions and stare all you want, but don’t ignore it and don’t be afraid.

I probably write an average of 10 stories every week, so imagine the number of interviews I do to produce those stories. It’s one of the many reasons I love my job. I’m constantly meeting new people and learning new things.

Recently, while out on assignment for a business story about a local hair salon, one of the owners got us a little off topic because her daughter only has one hand too.

We talked about how her daughter was born with one hand, my car accident, never needing help with anything, the things we both do with ease that people think would be hard, etc. Her daughter could do it all, just like I always think I can. The conversation made me smile knowing a high school student shared my views on being one handed.

One of the other owners said the worst thing you could do is call her “disabled.” I agree. Anyone who knows me knows I am not disabled. I am far from it.

We eventually steered the conversation back to the hair salon, and I left the interview thinking about how great my job is—being able to meet people like that. But I was sad thinking I’d probably never talk to the mom again or meet her daughter.

Luckily, I was wrong. Her mom emailed me within a few weeks suggesting I do a story about her daughter performing a dance routine for an after school program. My editors liked the idea, and I snatched the opportunity. Her mom had told me that she could put stud earrings in by herself, and I was dying to know how she did it. I gave up on that long ago, just deciding I didn’t need to wear studs.

I watched her dance routine in amazement—especially when she did a cartwheel. Afterwards, we talked briefly about earrings, doing our hair, prosthetics and The Bachelor—just typically topics for two one-handed girls.

Again, I left that interview happy to have a strategy and motivation to try studs again, but I thought that was the end of it. Little did I know, my editors were interested in my personal experience too.

Given that I don’t consider myself to have an inspiring story to tell, I generally don’t suggest it, but I’ll say yes if asked. So last Sunday, my story was revealed to Frankfort. In case people didn’t recognize me before as the one-handed courts and cops reporter for The State Journal, they sure do now. Throughout this past week, I was noticed at the courthouse, by attorneys I’ve never met, a judge and some woman at Kroger.

Despite millions of amputees nationwide, there’s just not many in Frankfort, Ky.

If you’re interested in reading the story, download the PDFs: a01_05-12 and a08_05-12.

If I had a dollar for every time I was told I have such a positive attitude given what I went through losing my hand, I’d be rich and living somewhere tropical. (If only…)

People have said that to me since I woke up in the hospital. I was highly drugged and determined to not let this change my life. In some ways, I succeeded—I finished school, got a job and on the surface, I live life like anyone else. But some things were inevitable. I can’t exactly change the fact that I can’t clap, for instance.

While it makes me happy people think I have a great attitude, it also frustrates me. It doesn’t take much to be positive. All it takes is realizing the situation you’re in is a hell of a lot better than the one you could be in.

For example, numerous Boston Marathon victims are now amputees to varying degrees. I wasn’t surprised when I read an article recently about how positive these victims are acting. It’s simple—they are happy to be alive because they know they could be dead. They realized quickly how much smarter it is to think about what they can do than to think about what they can’t.

Another great example—earlier this week I met a mom who has a 2-year-old daughter who is immobile. She has a severe form of epilepsy called Lennox-Gastaut Syndrome and started having seizures when she was four days old. The mom talked about all the things her daughter loves to do—swimming, going to school a few days a week, trips to the grocery store and swinging. They sat in the living room laughing and playing, completely ignoring that their lives are different from other families. The mom is just happy to have her daughter.

Outlooks like these are inspirational—I’ll agree with that, but I won’t say these stories are rare. There are thousands, if not millions, of stories like mine. There are people everywhere who overcome hardships with a smile on their face.

In my case, I know I could have died in my accident or had brain damage or leg injuries or lost even more of my arm. The list can go on for days.

It might not be as obvious as a missing hand, but those stories there. If you’re looking to read one, I highly recommend a 10-part series in The Indianapolis Star right now about a woman’s battle with brain cancer. Here’s a link to the most recent article, part seven, but I suggest starting from the beginning. She doesn’t sugarcoat her feelings, but she also laughs a lot, and that’s all you can do.

I have my bad days, just like anyone else, and I’ve had my fair share of breakdowns. The key thing is to get over those bad moods and be able to move on. You laugh at yourself and enjoy the life you do have instead of focusing on a fictional one you wish you could have. I’m reminded all the time that there are plenty of people out there who know how to do that, and that’s pretty great.

When you are missing a left hand, it’s pretty noticeable to yourself, but other people sometimes aren’t as aware of it.

To me, it’s obvious that I won’t wear a wedding ring on my left hand, can’t use all the functions on video game controllers and won’t have the easiest time skiing. To other people, I’ve recently found out it’s not obvious that I’d have trouble with any of these things.

Maybe people just aren’t observant enough or maybe I’m just great at functioning like I have two hands. I choose to believe the latter.

Something that I’m not surprised people don’t realize or notice is the anniversary of my car accident. Feb. 8 is never a day I look forward to anymore, but on the outside it’s like any other day. In years past, I went to class, worked at the Indiana Daily Student, did my homework, maybe spent time with some friends. The day has no significance on the surface.

But on the inside, I’ve spent the last three anniversaries reliving my accident in my mind. I usually spent the day thinking “if only I had done something different” and wondering “what if?” I always justified my mood by knowing during the rest of the year, I wouldn’t let it get to me. It was my one day to feel sorry for myself.

But this year, on the fourth anniversary, I’m proud to say it was just like any other day. I reported, went to lunch with coworkers, wrote a story and went home for the day. When I got home, I didn’t mope or let my mind get the best of me by reliving the vivid details of the crash. I worked out and had a date night with my boyfriend.

I don’t think there will ever be a Feb. 8 when I don’t realize the significance of the date, but I’m happy that after four years I don’t need that one day of the year anymore. I looked at Friday as four years of dominating life with one hand. Four years of taking a horrible situation and turning it into extreme motivation. My accident didn’t stop me from living life to the fullest. If anything, it motivated me to do more with my life.

And when you look at it that way, there’s really nothing to be sad about.